Through Your Eyes
by snuggalong
Summary: 'You never know how you look through other people's eyes.' -Unknown. Duo may think the others blind to him. But do they understand him more than he thinks? Do they wonder what lies beneath his mask? -Fifth in the Death's Masque series-
1. Prologue: What the Masqued Believe

**Through Your Eyes**

* * *

PROLOGUE: WHAT THE MASQUED BELIEVE

* * *

_you see  
__what you want to see  
__you are  
__what you want to be (or are you?)  
__i see  
__the truth beneath  
__i am — only — me_

_you see  
__the façade of lies  
__you think  
__that you know me  
__i see  
__through your disguise  
__i think  
__that you are blind (to think that you know me)_

_can you see the  
__truth? (behind these eyes)  
__or will you continue  
__to be  
__blind  
__i hope you see before  
__the end  
__that i am not who you think  
__i am_

_you are blind  
__...to the world  
__...to its faults  
__...to the truth  
__what would you say if you knew? (the truth behind these lies)_

—'Blind Truth,' by Erin


	2. What Perfection Cannot See

****

**Through Your Eyes**

* * *

CHAPTER ONE: WHAT PERFECTION CANNOT SEE

_'There are three classes of people: those who see. Those who see when they are shown. Those who do not see.'  
_-Leonardo da Vinci

* * *

He confuses me. I look at him, and I see a contradiction, an impossibility, something that _should not exist._

At least not in my world, but I am well aware that he has no desire to conform to my world—or anyone else's, for that matter.

He_ smiles. _He _laughs_. He _jokes._ He _lives_.

How can he do these things when we are in the midst of war, of a fight every day for our lives and everything that we believe in?

How can he be so human, when we have been destroyed by what we've seen?

Everything about him is a contradiction. His eyes, that impossible violet. His hair, long and _braided_, but he wears it with so much pride. His black clothes, in direct contrast to his bright personality.

His personality, which burns so bright it hurts to see, despite the bloodshed, the death, the pain we suffer and inflict.

From what I, from what _we_ know of his past, he should be like us. Old, jaded, tired, sad, broken—perhaps even more so.

But every day he smiles. Every day he laughs. Every day he jokes.

Every day he _lives_.

I cannot see it. How can he bear it? How can he brush it off like it's nothing, and continue to be so damn _happy?_

Sometimes I think I'm wrong. Sometimes, I think there might be more. A flash, an instant, a single moment where he looks so sad and empty—only to be a moment later swept aside by that damnable grin.

I think he wears a mask, like we do. One far more complex and complete, far deeper than ours could ever be.

He calls me perfect, but he is the one who has achieved perfection—for the mask never slips, only cracks, and is swiftly healed.

I am not perfection. For if I was, I would be able to pierce his masks, to see, and to finally understand why he smiles. Why he laughs. Why he jokes.

Why he lives.

Perhaps I am blind. Looking too deep to find something that hides just beneath the surface—or something that doesn't exist in the first place.

But I am gladly blind, for who could willingly try to see what makes such a contradiction, an impossibility, a puzzle?

How can he be full of such life, when he calls himself Death?

* * *

Well, my amazing _only _(hinthint) reviewer suggested I go into the mind of the other pilots. Duo laments so much on how they see him, but how do they really? This is Heero, in case you couldn't tell—was it too OOC? Sentimental? Deep? (For Heero, at least.)

This will be multi-chapter, so keep an eye out for the next installment—_What Empathy Cannot Feel._ (I do have a reason for the order, yes.)

DISCLAIMER: I hold no claim to Gundam Wing or any related franchises. The plot, the idea, and the DM series however, belong to me. The quote belongs to Leonardo da Vinci.


	3. What Empathy Cannot Feel

**Through Your Eyes**

* * *

CHAPTER TWO: WHAT EMPATHY CANNOT FEEL

'_There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion  
__That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble  
D__rops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,  
__Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together'  
_-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

I am closest to him, yet I am also the farthest away, for even with my gift I cannot even begin to fathom the endless depths of his heart.

Just because I can feel what another feels, does not mean that I can understand it. Does not mean that I know what causes it, why it affects them so, and if it's sad, or negative, how I can help them.

You know what they say about assumptions. Guess wrong, and I may be met with anger, with rage, with indignation.

So quietly I feel, and try to understand the emotions that fill his heart, emotions that are such a contradiction to his bright smile.

I think that I am the one who understands the most his need for a mask. Oh yes—I am well aware that he wears a mask, despite some people's opinion of my naivety. We have spent so much time together, there had to be moments—even if they were just that, mere moments—where the mask cracked, just a bit. A phrase, an expression, a word, an emotion. Small things, but they all add up to a simple conclusion—he wears a mask, like we all do, a mask of laughter and happiness.

The things I sometimes feel from him...are so deep, so dark, so broken that I can hardly imagine how he stands to keep them all inside, how he stands them in the first place.

How does he not fall in the face of such sorrow, such pain?

I may know what plagues his heart, but that is not the same as knowing why it plagues his heart.

He calls me friend, calls me brother, but he will not tell me why he is so sad and empty. Will not tell me why he feels so lonely.

It hurts that he feels he cannot trust me. And that is the one thing I do feel from him, whenever the mask slips in front of me, that I can understand.

That mistrust. That fear. He is so deeply afraid of what I, what we, think of him, that he will never voice the pain he feels.

Even if underneath it all, there is one more emotion that is always there, the only other that I can even begin to fathom. It resides so deep within his heart, I am not even sure if he is aware of it.

It is a burning _desire_, to speak, to be understood, to tell someone of what he feels and have them simply listen. But he will not act upon it. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not ever.

And no matter how much I may wish to, I will not ask. I will not pry. If he wishes to bear this burden alone, then bear it he will, because that is how he is—so stubborn, so determined. But eventually, eventually he will not be able to bear it anymore.

Eventually something will come—a day, a moment, a phrase, a word, an expression, an emotion that will break the walls that he has built so high, overwhelm them and destroy them.

But until that day comes I will always be here, with this heart that feels but cannot fathom, until the mask finally shatters and falls, and cannot be fixed.

* * *

Well, here we have it again. I am on a roll with this, yeah. I decided that Quatre should be a little more aware of what goes on in Duo's heart, even if he can't understand it. But note this, because it will be slightly important later—Quatre said that he understood his _need_ for a mask. Chew on that, and wait until Trowa's chapter.

Keep an eye out for the next chapter, too, which should be up soon—_What Justice Cannot Fix._

DISCLAIMER: I hold no claim to Gundam Wing or any related franchises. The quote belongs to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. You know what belongs to me.


	4. What Justice Cannot Fix

**Through Your Eyes**

* * *

CHAPTER THREE: WHAT JUSTICE CANNOT FIX

'_Shades of grey wherever I go  
The more I find out the less that I know  
__Black and white__ is how it should be  
But shades of grey are the colors I see.'  
_-Billy Joel

* * *

They can believe what they want. I, however, see the truth.

And that truth is a simple thing—for no matter how much they believe he hides, he wears no façade. He wears no mask, bears no secret, knows not the meaning of pain.

He is a simple boy who smiles too wide and laughs too much, who knows nothing of war despite the battles he fights.

He is too wild, too carefree, too cheerful to be the broken person they try to make him out to be. So many times they have tried to convince me, to just "look beneath the surface."

What surface? There is no surface, no depth to him. He is a mirror or a pane of glass—what you see is what he is.

Perhaps I am too judgmental. I am well aware of the differences in our upbringing—or rather, his lack of one. I was taught to be kind, courteous, and quiet, to respect my elders. I was taught everything the only heir of a great Clan was to know.

He was obviously given no such luxuries. And I condemn him for it, even if I should not, condemn him for being who he is.

Don't I have the right to? What man—what boy, for he is no man, laughs in the midst of war? Laughs in the face of battle, of death, of the screams of men who plead for mercy?

He has no honor. He has proven this to me many times over. And just as many times, I suppose, he has proven that he does. A kind word, a gentle hand, a shoulder to lean on, or one of the few blessed moments when he is quiet and looks so sad.

But that sadness is what brings forth my rage once more, brings forth the burning desire to scream at him, to demand what right he has to look so sad and broken when he has never known sadness or pain in his life.

Even if he was not brought up with the rigidity that I was faced with, it is quite obvious that he has not known what we have known. He most likely had a family—in fact, probably still has one, one that even if they don't have much, he can go home to and pretend for just a little while that he's not in the middle of this bloody war.

Sometimes, though it makes me sick, I want to break him. To wipe that grin off his face, smother his laughter, destroy his family and see how he feels when he has nothing.

Think me judgmental if you wish, but I stand by these words. They are, after all, the truth—no matter what they try to make me see. And nothing can change that. I cannot change that—cannot change who he is, only see it and try to let him know that at least someone is not fooled by his idiocy.

There is no justice in this world. None at all. For if there was, everything would be the black and white it once was, not this endless shade of gray—and they would all see that there is no façade to see through, no mask to be broken—only a laughing, smiling fool.

* * *

I actually saved this once it was done and left it for a few hours rather than reading it over and posting it, because it irks me. This is probably my least favorite one—it was difficult to write, because I honestly love Wufei, but for this series he needed to be the black-and-white, no nonsense, justice loving character GW originally portrayed him as. And I still don't like it. But there has to be someone who refused to see any depth to Duo. Thanks to Anonymous Void for giving me inspiration for this chapter.

Keep an eye out for the next installment—_What Silence Cannot Fathom._

DISCLAIMER: I hold no claim to Gundam Wing or any related franchises. You know what belongs to me, and the quote belongs to Billy Joel.


	5. What Silence Cannot Fathom

**Through Your Eyes**

**

* * *

**

CHAPTER FOUR: WHAT SILENCE CANNOT FATHOM

'_Silence is the most powerful scream.'  
_-Unknown

* * *

Silence is who I am—those who know me know me for my silence and my cold, distant eyes. I see no use in speaking, and so the words I speak are short and meaningful.

But it is always the silent that see what no one else can, the little things that no one else thinks anything of.

I see through him, though he thinks he hides so well, thinks that no one can see through the mask he has built.

I stand here, silent, and watch as he struggles each day to keep his smile from shattering, his laughter from breaking. I can see all of the pain that he holds back, the loneliness and the emptiness.

We are very alike, he and I, though he is not aware of it. The others don't see the signs, the small nuances that I do.

The way he eats, as though he might starve the next moment, as though it may be taken away. The way he moves, wary and tense and graceful like a cat, as though he expects to be attacked. The way he speaks, as though he is constantly watching what he says, holding something back. Every now and then something slips through—a word, a phrase, a hint of some subtle accent that I can't place.

But mostly, the way he will not speak of his past, at all, save for some vague references to a Father and Sister that somehow, I don't think were of blood relation to him.

He never speaks of family. Never speaks of friends. Never of school. Never of home. Never of anything.

So I know. We are very alike; he and I—for neither of us ever had a childhood, or anything resembling stability. We grew up fighting for everything—our next meal, our next bed, our next day; our next moment, even.

I know that the others don't see, at least not the way I do. They know he hides. They know of the mask he wears. But none of them can see the broken teen that lies beneath it.

Sometimes that brokenness shows through, and I hear their whispers, thinking that maybe he finally gets it, that maybe he finally understands the seriousness of what we are doing, the war we are fighting.

But I know the truth—he was broken long before he ever met us, long before he ever set foot on the battlefield.

He doesn't know that I see through him. Because no matter how alike we are, one thing will always keep us apart—ironic, for it's the same thing that draws us together.

Our masks.

He wears a mask of laughter and happiness, while I revel in my silence. He smothers his pain with smiles and a bright personality, while I merely lock mine behind an impenetrable wall of silence, with nothing allowed past.

I understand why he wears a mask. I understand what he hides behind it. But there is one thing I'll never understand—how he, even with what he's been through, can laugh and joke and smile and pretend that he's okay, even when we both know that he's not.

And I—because of what I've been through—am trapped in a cage of my own creation, a cage built of memories, pain, and above all this broken, beautiful thing called silence.

* * *

This is the one that I was waiting to write from the beginning, because I planned from the beginning to have Trowa be the one who understood Duo the most. We have Heero, who like Trowa does not understand how Duo can laugh and smile and live, and barely realizes that it is a mask. We have Quatre, who realizes there is a mask and part of the reason for it. We have Wufei who refuses to see anything other than the mask presented to him. And we have Trowa who understands the existence of a mask, the need for a mask, and what lies behind said mask, but not how Duo can mask himself the way he does. Do I make any sense?

Either way, there's likely to be a small epilogue, probably another poem or a little drabble from Duo.

DISCLAIMER: I hold no claim to Gundam Wing or any related franchises. The quote belongs to whoever it belongs to—you know what belongs to me.


	6. Epilogue: What Hurts the Masqued

**Through Your Eyes**

* * *

EPILOGUE: WHAT HURTS THE MASQUED

'_He who wears a mask cannot see within himself.'  
_-Unknown

* * *

In the end, what hurts the most is not the way that they look at me—the pity, the disgust, the anger, the annoyance—but the knowledge that it's my own fault they look at me that way.

'_This is what you wanted, isn't it? This is the mask you built.'_

It was. Is it still?

I don't know.

But it hurts.

In the end, what hurts the most is not keeping this mask—have you seen it crack? No, you haven't, but it does—but knowing that if I were to remove this mask, I would know who I am anymore.

In the end, what hurts the most is not losing those that I love, but rather learning to love in the first place, knowing that I will still lose them in the end.

(Because Death is always alone)

And, in the end, what hurts the most is not that they condemn me—I condemn myself—but rather that they condemn me for what I cannot change, rather than what I can.

_'After all, how many times have I wished that I wasn't what I am? What I was? What I'll always be?'_

I don't know why I am saying this. I don't know what finally gave me the courage to speak these words.

Perhaps it finally hurt more to keep it inside than to set it free.

I don't know the reason.

All I know is that it hurts. It hurts _so much_.

And I don't think that it will ever stop.

- _fin _-

Wrote this months ago for no particular reason. Found it perfect for this epilogue. Hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it; keep an eye out for other multi-chapters in the future of this series. Insert standard disclaimer below.


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